


Slow and Steady

by EchoThruTheWoods



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 23:42:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14883491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods
Summary: Canon says Vincent can't dance. I say it's all in the setting, and the partner ;)





	Slow and Steady

Vincent cast a look up the street, then back over his shoulder. He saw no one. Not many people came down this street so early in the morning; that was all to the good. Turning into the alley on his right, he followed the narrow space to the back door of the old building, and knocked.

The door opened just a crack. A pair of deep brown eyes looked out.

“There you are! I thought you weren’t coming after all!”

He stepped inside, shedding his jacket. “I almost didn’t.”

Tifa took his jacket and hung it on a hook beside the door. “Having second thoughts?”

“Actually, yes.” He tugged at the glove on his left hand, changed his mind, pulled it back into place. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Of course it will. Come on.”

Tifa led him to the store room, where she’d cleared a space in the middle of the room. Cartons of linens and glassware lined one wall, crates of bottled olives, cocktail onions and cherries, another. In one corner a small table held a battered pair of portable speakers, connected by a black cable to Tifa’s phone.

She touched a button on the phone. Music began to play, a simple piano tune. She gave Vincent an encouraging smile and held out her hand.

“Ready?”

He took her hand. “I’m really not sure about this. I know it was my idea, but…”

“Vincent, relax. Everybody can dance. Remember, you’re doing this for Veld. Put your left hand here. That’s right.” She bobbed her head gently to the music. “Feel the rhythm? Now follow me…”

An hour later, sitting on top of a crate and rubbing her instep, Tifa had to rethink that word “everybody.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said, for what had to be the fortieth time.

“I know.” She looked at her foot. It was turning purple. Thank Gaia he wasn’t wearing the sabatons. “Maybe you just need a taller partner. I could ask Rude or…”

“Please don’t. This is supposed to be a secret.”

“All right. Why don’t we give it a rest for today? I think you’re starting to pick it up.”

He shook his head. “It’s hopeless.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘hopeless’…but…well.” She shut off the music, rested her hands on her knees. “Didn’t you have to learn this as a Turk?”

“Yes, well…” He gave a helpless shrug. “I didn’t get it then, either. It was a joke to the people I trained with. ‘Valentine’s got two left feet’.” If I had to attend a function that included dancing, I’d volunteer for security detail so I could stay on the sidelines.” He scowled. “I was a professional wallflower.”

“But you move so gracefully, even when you fight. Why is dancing any different?”

He flushed. “I just can’t get the rhythm. In my head, it feels like I’m off-balance.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just over-thinking it?”

“No. Maybe? I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”

Resisting the urge to facepalm, Tifa patted his arm instead. “Any chance you can talk Veld out of this big date?”

“He really wants to go to this new restaurant. I checked it out. Five-star chef, wine list to match, and an award-winning house band. It’s the only thing he wants for his birthday. How can I say no?”

She grinned. “Veld never struck me as the partying type. Does he dance well?”

“Veld does everything well. When we first met, I hated him for that. And he wasn’t impressed with me, either.”

“But things got better, right? You told me once that he trained you.”

“In a way. He told me if I didn’t keep up, he’d personally kick my ass out the door. In fact, he bet three other Turks that I’d wash out in the first week. I had to learn fast, to prove him wrong.”

Tifa rolled her eyes. “Men.”

“Two of those three were women.”

She snorted. “Turks.”

“Exactly.”

“So what’s this new restaurant called?”

“Céleste. It’s a beautiful place, very elegant.” His scowl darkened. “I don’t want to embarrass him, Tifa. I just want to make him happy.”

“Well, come back tomorrow. We’ll keep trying until you at least grasp the basics.”

She made a mental note to wear heavy boots next time. And thick socks.

# # #

Vincent took the long way home, going over dance steps in his head. They made sense, logically; but when he tried to put them into action, his feet wanted to go one way and his hips another. He’d never suffered from vertigo, but dancing made him feel as though he was on the verge of it.

He’d had high hopes when he’d first approached Tifa about teaching him; he should have known better. What made him think he could do it now, if he couldn’t do it thirty years ago?

If only Veld hadn’t set his heart on a night of dinner and dancing; it was going to be a disaster, he just knew it. He should find something else to give him, something to make up for his failure.

Vincent stopped walking. He’d passed a thrift shop a few blocks back, and something in the window had caught his eye. Something both familiar to him, and unusual in this day of digitized media.

He retraced his steps until he found the small store, squeezed between two pricey boutiques. ‘Retro Chic,’ read the sign above the door.

He went inside. Negotiation wasn’t his strong point, and he knew it, but he didn’t care, and paid the asking price for the old machine in the window.

“Replaced all the wiring myself,” the grey-haired shopkeeper told him, as he packed the item carefully into a box. He paused, eyeing Vincent doubtfully. “By the way, you need a tutorial on this thing?”

“Thank you, but I know how it works.”

“If you say so, sonny.”

Vincent rolled his eyes, picked up the box and headed out the door. He had another stop to make, to acquire an essential accessory.

# # #

He tried, he really did. Tifa was game, but a week’s worth of lessons got him nowhere. She’d taken to wearing boots during their sessions, though she laughed off his clumsiness, and silenced his constant apologies with the same stern glare she used when he tried to pay her for a drink.

By the tenth lesson, he knew it was a lost cause.

“This isn’t working. I’m a total klutz.”

“Don’t give up now! You’re getting it!”

Now it was his turn to glare. “Miss Lockhart, telling lies sets a bad example for the children.”

Tifa giggled at that, but her wry smile told him that underneath the encouragement, she agreed that dancing was simply not his forte.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’ve been very generous, Tifa, but let’s stop before I cripple you.”

“All right. What are you going to do?”

He sighed. “I’ll think of something.”

He didn’t.

In the end, he simply didn’t have the heart to try to talk Veld out of his plans. No one in the WRO, up to and including Reeve himself, worked harder than Veld. He spent more hours on the job than anyone except Vincent. Veld walked the streets with his sector supervisors and guided the training of their teams. He brought paperwork home, took a turn once a week instructing at the shooting range, and mentored promising recruits on the side.

He thrived on it, but even he needed a respite now and then. A night out would be good for him, and Vincent intended to give it to him if it cost him every last scrap of dignity he possessed.

# # #

Early on the evening of Veld’s birthday, Vincent waited until Veld was in the shower, then attempted a few of the dance steps he’d tried so hard to learn. It didn’t seem that difficult in theory, if he…just…concentrated. One step, two…left goes here, then right…or was it right first, then left? And you turned, just so, and the next step went like this, or was it that way?

He turned, caught one foot on the other, and stumbled, arms flailing, into the wall with a bruising thump.

Shit. He had all the grace of a one-legged stork.

Well, Veld would lead. How bad could it be?

Don’t answer that, he told himself.

He dressed for dinner with all the enthusiasm of a man going to his own execution, but with care nonetheless. The midnight blue suit and silver-grey shirt had been chosen to complement Veld’s best suit, of gunmetal grey. At least his appearance wouldn’t embarrass his partner.

Veld seemed to agree.

“You clean up well, Valentine.” He reached to adjust Vincent’s tie, brushed back a stray lock of hair at the side of his face. The warm touch of blunt, familiar fingers, rough with a gunman’s calluses, sent a shiver all through Vincent’s body. He caught Veld’s hand in his own, still ungloved, held it.

“You’re like ice,” Veld said. “You okay?”

The soft flutter of impending disaster filled Vincent’s stomach. He drew a slow breath. “I’m good.”

It had rained, and the dark pavement glistened like hematite. They walked to Céleste as the sun set, casting iridescent shadows at their feet. People passing by shot admiring glances at both of them. Vincent watched Veld’s reflection in shop windows, watched the man himself walking beside him, moving with a grace and confidence that only age and accomplishment could grant.

One step, two…left, then right. Follow his lead. He had to do it, for Veld.

One step into the restaurant, Vincent knew he was outclassed. Brushed steel and crystal, the golden glow of candle-flame, and accents of gleaming ebony, all framed Veld perfectly. He fit right in, while Vincent, too thin, too awkward, brought the property value down just by walking in.

They’d probably kick him out in a minute.

The hostess, tall and dark with the bearing of a gracious queen, confirmed their reservation under the name of Valentine, and showed them to their table. A server turned up immediately, filling water goblets, detailing the evening’s bill of fare--nothing so pedestrian as printed menus here--as well as an extensive list of fine liquors. Veld ordered a single malt rye whiskey.

“The grasslands’ finest,” said the server, “an excellent choice, sir. And for you, sir?” he added, turning to Vincent.

“Just the water is fine,” said Vincent. He’d already drunk half the glass. The server refilled it, and brought the whiskey.

“Mind giving us a few minutes to decide?” asked Veld, with a glance at Vincent.

“Certainly, sir.” The server withdrew.

“Everything okay, Vince?” said Veld.

“Good, good…” Vincent managed a slight smile. “Fine.”

“Okay.” Veld tried the whiskey, and one brow went up. “Not bad. So, what do you think? The duck confit sounds good, or the poached scallops.”

Oh, gods, he hadn’t really listened that closely. “Um…Whatever you want, Veld. Anything.”

“I know. But what would you like?”

To get out of here, thought Vincent. The place wasn’t as big on the inside as it had appeared from the street. The dining room held no more than ten tables, arranged in a semi-circle around a hardwood dance floor. Vincent made note of the door to the kitchen, and the emergency exit behind the stage.

“Vince?”

“I’m thinking.”

Why were the damn walls so dark? So close? They probably thought it was cozy and intimate. Despite the candlelight and the gleaming chandeliers, shadows flickered at the edge of his vision. He looked up, seeking distraction, meeting Veld’s eyes, their warm amber depths bright with reflected candle flame.

“I can’t decide. You pick for me.”

Across from Veld and Vincent’s table, the house musicians sat on a raised platform, playing a soft, meandering tune on strings and piano that segued into a slow waltz. Several couples rose from their tables as the music swelled.

Veld smiled, extended one hand to Vincent. “Shall we?”

This was it. Okay, it was just a dance. He’d practiced. Veld would lead. It would look a little odd, as Vincent himself was a head taller, but it couldn’t be helped.

Vincent rose, taking Veld’s hand, following him onto the dance floor. Where did his other hand go, what was he supposed to do first…? Tifa’s patient lessons melted into tangled mush in his head.

Veld flowed into the first steps of the dance, silently urging Vincent to follow. Vincent’s heart kicked, making his breath catch. Balance deserted him, tilting his hips one way, his shoulders another. He froze, his stuttering heart shaking him from the inside out.

The walls, the dancers, the shadows, Veld…too close. Everything, everyone, was too close, he couldn’t, couldn’t, he --

_ HAD TO GET OUT NOW _

He fled.

###

Veld found him half a block away, arms wrapped tight around his torso, back pressed against a cold brick wall.

“Vincent?”

“Veld, I--I--”

“Come on.” Veld nudged his arm. “Let’s go home.”

“But--dinner---”

“Some other time.” Veld pried one of Vincent’s hands free, pulled him slowly away from the wall. “Come on.”

The walk home took a century, an age. Vincent struggled in silence, trying to fit every word he knew into an apology, an explanation, into anything that wouldn’t sound like an excuse. He said none of them.

Once home, Veld hung his suit jacket over the back of a chair and loosened his tie. “How about some coffee?”

Still tongue-tied, Vincent nodded without meeting his eyes. Heading into the kitchen, Veld patted his shoulder. Not a word of blame, exasperation, or even disappointment. Vincent stared after Veld. He did not deserve that man, and never had.

The evening was a fiasco, but he had at least one tiny, saving grace. From the closet of the spare bedroom, he retrieved his backup gift. It might not be much, but at least it was a small token of appreciation for everything Veld had done--and still did--for him.

When Veld came back into the living room, Vincent’s gift stood on the coffee table in all its vintage glory.

“What in the world…?” Veld broke into a grin. “Haven’t seen one of these in years!”

He gave the turntable a nudge, watching it spin slowly, lifted the arm to peer at the needle, ran his fingers over the control knobs: Record speed, volume, tone.

Vincent handed him the second part of the gift: A flat square package, painstakingly wrapped in gold paper. “Vinyl’s coming back, you know,” he said, voice just the slightest bit shaky.

Veld ripped the paper off of the album. “ _ Nechilo _ , eh? Didn’t know they were recording now.”

“It’s their first,” said Vincent. “Won’t be just local indie much longer.”

Veld hadn’t forgotten how to use a phonograph any more than Vincent had. He put the record on the turntable, set the needle in place, flicked the ‘On’ switch. As the first notes of piano and harp flowed from the speakers, he turned back to Vincent.

“Thanks, Vince. I love it.”

It should have eased the ache in Vincent’s heart, but the knot in his throat only grew larger and colder. He stood still, uncertain, as the first song played through, while Veld nodded in time, his eyes half closed, a slight smile on his lips.

As the next song began, Vincent made a sound, a sharp, indrawn breath. “I’m sorry.”

Veld looked up at him. “What for?”

“I ruined your birthday.”

Veld opened his arms. “Spook, any day I wake up is a good day.”

Vincent stepped into his embrace. “But you wanted  _ one  _ thing, and I couldn’t give it to you. I wanted this day to be special.”

Veld rocked him slowly, gently. “It is. Believe me, Vince.” He moved a step, and Vincent followed.

“You’re not just saying that?”

Veld’s hands slid down, resting lightly on Vincent’s narrow hips. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Another easy, sliding step, and a third. Vincent moved with him, one hand on Veld’s back, one on his hip.

“It’s just that I can’t dance, Veld. I never could, I never will…”

“I know, Vince, it’s okay.”

“What about dinner?” Vincent murmured as they moved. “You shouldn’t have to cook today. I could…make scrambled eggs.”

He could. Cooking was another skill he’d never picked up, but this much he could handle.

“Promise not to set the kitchen on fire?” said Veld.

“I promise.”

“Then make scrambled eggs. After the song ends.”

Music filled the silence, the liquid notes of the keyboard weaving over and under the bright bird-calls of the pipes, the distant, staccato patter of the bodhran keeping time. Vincent swayed in Veld’s arms, following his steps, eyes closed.

“Veld?”

“Yeah, Vince?”

“I hope it never ends.”

Veld smiled. “Me, too, spook.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
